


England, Alone.

by AuthorReinvented



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Revolution, Canada is taking care of England, Family, Heartwarming, Little bit of angst, Love, Other, a little sad, kinda toughing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:55:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23493571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorReinvented/pseuds/AuthorReinvented
Summary: England is sick, both physically and mentally after America's revolution, feeling alone and abandoned.But Is England really alone?
Relationships: Canada/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	England, Alone.

England once again woke up, eyes puffy and crusted, where he had fallen asleep at his desk. He felt stiff and nauseated, and even as he sat up, he felt the contents of his stomach forcing themselves back out. He reached instinctively for the bucket beside his chair, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he retched.

He choked a little as he finished heaving, and reached again, this time for the desk, his fingers folding around the bottle of water he knew would be there. He swished the water around in his mouth, spitting it into the bucket, then gulped some more down. For a moment he felt better, then he made the mistake of looking down into the bucket, and the process repeated itself.

The next time, he pushed the bucket away, quickly, staggering out of his seat. He knew it would be taken care of, emptied and replaced, cleaned to the point it looked new, when he returned. He stripped off his sweat-stained, vomit-splatter shirt and took the two asperin sitting on the bathroom counter, the same way they had been the day before, and the day before that, the same way they would be tomorrow.

Even as he stepped into the shower, determined to remove any taste or trace of his previous purge, he was already thinking wistfully of the ginger tea, so helpful on the uneasy stomach, that would be waiting for him when he came back. The music had been started, at the same way it always was, and as always, England was pathetically grateful to the way it covered the silence in the house, the lack of a rambunctious voice calling out, confident steps, the ever -cheerful face.

But his face hadn't been cheerful last time England saw him. And suddenly the nausea was back, and the water he had downed came back up, bringing with it bile, burning his throat, his knees threatened to collapse. England tried to chase the memory out of his head, focusing instead on what awaited once he was done washing. His ginger tea, his rich soup broth, waiting steaming and warm on the table, the fire, burning cozily and warming the empty house.

The house that hadn't been so empty before. He hadn't been that harsh, had he? No, his requests for taxes hadn't been that unreasonable, it was America, not him, who was unreasonable. But the thought sounded like a lie even in his own head. At the very least, he could not deny that he should have listened, he should have noticed earlier, acted earlier. He could have stopped the revolution before it began, crushed America, broken his will... 

No, that wasn't right, that wasn't what England wanted either. All he had wanted was his colony to stay by his side forever. Dimly he was aware that he had shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, was drying off. Going through the motions, but not all there. Because it was his fault, wasn't it? America had tried time and time again to communicate with England, first respectfully, then pleading, quickly escalating to shouting and violence, but England had refused to hear. 

And slowly America's requests had changed. No longer "lighten the taxes" and "please don't do this to me" but growing into a different concept, rooted in the original request. "Let me go." America had asked, no, he had _demanded_. "Give me my liberty." But England was blind with rage and his refusal to admit his mistakes. How dare America insinuate that England had done anything but love and care for him? How could he betray England's love like that? 

England found himself at the table, gulping down his tea, still steaming, but not so hot as to burn him. How had he gotten here? England didn't remember dressing himself, or seating himself at the table, tucking a napkin into his collar. This wasn't the first time this had happened, England finding himself somewhere with no memory of making a conscious thought to go there, but he had never thought further into it. Even as he dipped into his soup, it didn't seem strange to England to expect his spoon to be on his left side not his right.

After all, the day his finger had trembled on the trigger, then his hand fell uselessly to his side, England hadn't been able to eat with his right hand, unable to control the temours. He distracted himself from this thought by watching the sunlight from the window turn the yellow tulips in the vase golden and light the red and orange ones on fire. Tulips were in good taste, he reflected. They brought a little bit of brightness back into his house, so drab since that time. 

England made a mental note to give the maids a raise, for maintaining both the place and himself. But already the thought was escaping him, because through the window, down by the clothesline, he thought he saw a flash of golden hair, and it was America! He was back! But no, England reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut, it was a figment of his imagination. Because America was gone. When he opened his eyes again the golden haired apparition from beside the clothesline was gone, and only his shirts were left, blowing in the gentle breeze. 

Even as he watched, one of the shirts slipped free from the pins holding it, fluttering to the muddy ground, no doubt being stained. And suddenly England was angry. Angry at the lack of America, angry at his inability to be normal, to raise America properly, angry at his weakness in being unable to accept his loss, and angry at that dimwitted maid who had not securely fastened his clothing and caused his good shirt to be ruined. 

He was in his feet, tearing out the unblemished napkin from his collar, throwing it unceremoniously beside the empty soup bowl, and then he was marching, no, _storming_ outside, picking up his ruined shirt, hands shaking with rage, turning and rushing into the servants quarters, somewhere he rarely visited, even before the war. He threw open the door with a crash, probably terrifying the servants, and he felt a twisted pleasure in his anger. 

He was done being heartbroken and empty, done waking up and being sick, working through the cold sweats and chattering teeth, done collapsing at his desk with exhaustion only to repeat the cycle the next day. His anger was bringing with it another feeling, almost dead, but not quite. So what if he had lost? He was still the British Empire, he was still strong! He held his head high and threw his shoulders back as he stalked into the room, almost vibrating with adrenaline. He was _not_ going to be walked all over and disrespected by a maid! 

But the servants room was dark and empty, their resting spot covered with a flim of dust, the odd left behind item, a hair tie, a lost button, were clearly long forgotten and untouched. "Of course." He breathed, the energy and anger dissipating instantly. How had he forgotten? There were no more maids, no more servants. Even the silverware and the fancy paintings, his decorations, they had all been sold to help with his recovery. There was no money left to hire servants, to maintain them. 

But then... 

For the first time he felt something bugging him, pricking at his skin. All the things he had learned not to question rose to the top of his mind, and with them and uneasy question. The ginger tea that awaited him every morning, the steaming bowl of soup, who had made them? Certainly not England, no matter how out of it he was, he knew the food did not hold his flavour. The pills, set on the bathroom counter, the blanket that had been draped around his shoulders, who had done that? 

If it wasn't the maids, it wasn't himself, and was certainly not America, now separated, never to return to this house, then who? Who was the one who clean up his messes after he was sick, who stocked the fire and kept it burning? England was moving now, out of the servants quarters, and striding through the hall, something whispering to him that he was forgetting something important. He studied the faces of his colonies, hung in portraits through the hall, blanching at the empty space where America's had once hung. 

It wasn't his brothers, he knew, as neither Ireland, Scotland, nor Wales cared enough to try. In fact, they probably thought "serves him right!" The next portrait, oriental, expression unreadable, he barely considered, knowing Hong Kong's attachment to him was purely political, not sentimental. Then who? Australia? The lad so loud and rambunctious that England had set him to contain his criminals, a boy who never even tried to calm himself or hold himself back? No. Not him. 

But none of the faces fit the hole in the puzzle. It wasn't any of them. England was beginning to feel desperation. It wasn't the fairies he knew. Was it? But they had been so distant lately, and he couldn't seem to find them when he looked, couldn't hear their voices. But no, fairy thrived in positivity, and there was none left here now. Besides, Fairies were not made to cook or clean, their magic was nature based, used for something different. 

What was he forgetting? He didn't know when he had fallen to his knees, palms pressed to his forehead as though that would help him remember. But something was calling him back to his feet, to look again, to _see._ He was missing something, he knew, he just didn't know what. Then, as he turned, desperately, taking in the whole hall, all the portraits again, there was a flash of golden blond, next to the empty space America's portrait had once hung on. But he swallowed the bitter feelings and turned away from the empty wall, looking instead at the picture hanging next to it.

The man painted in the picture was almost a carbon copy of America, so similar they must have been twins, only distinguishable by a few key points. The curl in his hair, the violet eyes, his gentle smile, all of these told England that this wasn't America. How had he ever missed this picture? How was he only noticing the painted colony now that the bright and cheerful America's painting was missing? Why was it so hard to bring the name to his tongue?

Memories danced in front of his eyes and played through all his senses. A desperate fight, that, though short, was not without feelings. A child, so like America, but not at all like him. A preteen, small, bright, followed by a polar bear, quiet but inquisitive. A soft touch to his shoulder, the faint smell of maple and fir, as a blanket was draped around his shoulders, and a much older version of the child brushed back his bangs to press a kiss to the delirious empire's head. A whisper of a voice. "It'll be okay, England. You're not alone. I'm here." The name and the memories came to him in a shock, and he gasped the name.

"Canada!" 

God, where was he? How long had England forgotten him, neglected him? How long had he silently been caring for England while England languished and moped, without a word of complaint, or even a glance of acknowledgement from England? England was moving again, but this time he was conscious of it, moving with a purpose. Had he ever even thanked the boy for fighting by his side during the war? For not just doing his duty, but doing it well? But most of all, for not joining his brother and leaving too?

England knew where he would be. The shirt, still clenched in his fists, was his clue, his guiding light. Canada, kind Canada who looked after England unconditionally, who cleaned his vomit and washed his clothes, surely would have noticed the missing shirt. England threw open the door again, rushing outside, his gait no longer dignified or proper, but rushed, stumbling. Canada would surely be looking for the skirt, he must be outside-

And there he was, his golden blond hair blowing in the breeze, turning back and forth as though in search of something. England pulled short, gasping in his breaths, even as he took in the state of his former colony, clearly still suffering the repercussions of the war. He still bore faint scars, and when he raised his arm, England could see it was thin, but still the boy had donned a dustrag and apron, rolled up his sleeves and cleaned and cared for England. 

England felt his heart swelling, the ache of heartbreak seeming to fade, just a little. He remembered Canada's whispered promises, pressed into his forehead with a kiss, and knew they weren't a lie. "It'll be okay, England." And it would be. "You're not alone." He had never been, he was just too blind to see it. "I'm here." and there he was, standing, wide eyed, seeing for the first time a rather hot and frazzled England, short of breath, likely looking wild and lost and gripping a tattered shirt like it was his lifeline.

"England?" Canada was descending to him, eyes alight with worry, hands reaching to redirect him, to push England back indoors. But England struggled, turning against the hands and reaching, wrapping his arms around his colony, holding him close. "England, what's wrong? What's happened?" Canada begged, distressed at England's bizarre behaviour, his out of the ordinary reaction.

England didn't care. He held his colony tightly, unwilling to let him go and forget. "England -" Canada tried again, but England cut him off. "my dear boy." the boy in his arms stiffened. "Thank you. " He pulled away, reaching to turn the teen's face so he could look clearly into the purple eyes.he couldn't tell if his colony was crying, his vision was too blurred by his own tears, normally something that would have embarrassed him, but today he was deteemined to press on, to say what he _wanted_ to say. 

"Thank you, Canada. And I love you too."

The boy melted into England's arms, and England could feel the hot tears falling on his shoulder. "I missed you." Canada murmured, and England brushed the hair from his forehead, and returned the loving kiss. For the first time since America's revolution, England felt that everything really might be okay. And as he held Canada for the first time that he could remember in a long time, England though he saw a fairy, waiting nearby, watching him. England smiled.

No, he had never been alone.


End file.
